


A New Line Of Work

by Omorka



Category: Sneakers (1992)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-02
Updated: 2010-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-09 06:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omorka/pseuds/Omorka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The team is tailing a nervous man who's a near blank, with the help of another worried man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Line Of Work

**Author's Note:**

> Mild spoilers for the movie. Originally for the prompt "a park bench" for Story_Lottery on LJ.

The park was unusually noisy that morning, even allowing for the fountain.

Partly, that was due to the small clutch of children in private-school uniforms, most of them around ten or so, who were playing a game with their teacher that seemed to involve both running around in a tight circle and throwing a beach ball printed with a four-color globe back and forth. Whenever one of the students caught the ball, the teacher would ask them the name of one of the countries they'd touched (or, occasionally, an ocean). It wasn't immediately clear if the kids were counting up points, or just enjoying having their geography lesson outdoors, but the usual delighted screams of play were punctuated by excited shouts of "France!" and "Thailand!" and, in one case that proceeded an unusually loud bout of screeching, "Djibouti!"

About a third of the way around the open plaza, a smaller clutch of bigger kids, college-aged or perhaps just past, were clustered around a CD boombox and grooving to a recording of some local band, suspended somewhere between slow, loping grunge and folk-rock. Several cigarettes were being passed around, and possibly something a bit more potent; a skinny girl with short, spiky black hair and no makeup was explaining bass chords to a plump, long-haired blond while an only slightly less thin guy fiddled with the volume knob. The teacher occasionally shot them an icy glare and herded her charges in the other direction; the slackers waved at her and the kids when they were looking, and occasionally shot her the finger when she wasn't.

Two tall men in business suits took an early lunch, strolling around the edge of the park juggling tacos and newspapers. The one with the distinguished features of an African prince was explaining something about real estate futures; the other, balding, nervous, and professorial, nodded as if he were only half-listening. His eyes kept darting to the two groups of students, which seemed to annoy his business partner. A rugged-faced jogger stepped onto the grass to pass them.

A heavyset man in a polo shirt and khakis looked up from a science fiction novel and took in the scene. His bench faced the fountain; the spray divided the college yokels from the pre-preppie brats. The late morning sun kicked up rainbows in the spray; he inhaled slowly, savoring damp earth, cut grass, and the tang of chlorine. A dog snuffled at his feet, tied by a leash to the arm of the park bench.

Another man in a suit hustled down the walkway, eyes turned to the cracks in the concrete. A briefcase dangled from his right hand, banging at odd intervals against his leg as he strode. The lazy dog-walker looked up as the man with the valise passed the fountain; wherever he was going, he was sure intent on getting there.

In fact, he was so intent that he collided with the blind man picking his way across the plaza by cane. The cane skittered away across the concrete as the blind guy nearly went down, clutching at the other man's suit. The dog-walker stood up; he hadn't heard the tapping under the spray of the fountain, the kids, the music - and neither had the other guy, apparently.

The jogger hung a right and crossed the grass. "Hey, everyone okay here?"

"F-fine." The man with the briefcase picked it up from where it had fallen, eyes darting from side to side. "Sorry." He laid a hand on the blind man's arm to steady him.

The dog-walker scooped the cane up from the crack between grass and sidewalk and handed it to the jogger, who pressed it into its owner's hand. "You okay, man?" One of the college kids, the girl with spiked hair, drifted over; whether she wanted to help or was just rubbernecking wasn't clear.

"Sure." The blind guy turned his head slowly, locating the fountain and re-orienting himself. "I'll be fine."

"You're sure?" The jogger eyed the other man, blame clear on his face.

"I'm sure. Thanks, though." The tip of the cane skittered across the concrete and found the edge; its owner followed it around the fountain's circle.

The jogger shrugged and moved on. The college kids, momentarily silenced by the miniature drama, laughed and turned the music up. The dog-walker returned to the bench and began untying the leash.

"C'mon, Fort," he murmured, scratching the mutt behind the ears. "Time to head home."

\---

Crease and Dr. Brandes came up the back stairway, still paired. "Is this the way things always go?" Werner asked, glancing back over his shoulder.

"No." Crease shielded the doorknob with his shoulder as he punched in the key-code. "Generally speaking, we prefer to do as much of our surveillance from a distance as possible." The door swung open, and he held it for Brandes. "Unfortunately, in this case, our client is paying for up-close-and-personal."

"I see." Werner shucked his suit jacket; he was wearing suspenders underneath. "This is all still rather new to me."

"Well, the good news is that Fort here worked out fine." Mother grinned and fiddled with the dog's collar. "You modeling your next toy line on him?"

"If there were going to be a next toy line," Brandes said, wincing. "Ever since you put my last employer out of business, I've been afraid to apply anywhere else. I think I know too much." It sounded overdramatic, but the goose egg one of Cosmo's goons had given him during Bishop's getaway didn't speak well of their intent.

Liz looked a little guilty. It had been her slip-up that tipped Cosmo off in front of Werner, after all. Then again, it had been her idea to pair up Crease with Brandes instead of walking and eating by himself. "Well, my kids had fun, if nothing else."

The door opened again. Marty hadn't changed out of his sweaty t-shirt and jogging shorts. "Hey, guys," he said, smiling broadly. "I think we got some good info today." He strode over to the whiteboard and began erasing Mother's grocery list. "Let's go ahead and start debriefing while we wait for Carl to come down."

"Don't you mean come up?" Werner looked confused. Crease shook his head and ignored him; Mother chuckled into the palm of his hand.

Marty sketched out a circle with a smaller circle in the center, with four radiating spokes. "Here's the park. Our target," he said, adding a red dot at the bottom of the circle, "arrives from due south at - give me a time?"

Mother consulted a tiny notebook. "Between eleven twenty-two and eleven thirty-six every weekday morning. He's always dressed for a power meeting, and he always carries the same briefcase." He reached into a folder on the table behind him and pulled out several photographs.

"He crosses the park from south to north and then continues up Fifth Street," Marty announced. "Two blocks north of the park, he waits for the bus, then boards the bus heading west." He paused. "There's a bus station just across the street from the south edge of the park, less than a block from his apartment, that's served by a westbound line. When we shadowed him in the van, he got off at Sixteenth Street and then walked one block _south_ to the First Bank building. He could just as easily save himself three blocks by taking the other bus line. So," he declared, setting down the marker, "there must be something important he does either on the bus or on his walk there."

"My money's on the walk," Whistler stated to the room at large. Carl held the door for him; he was limping slightly.

Mother started to stand up again. "Are you okay? I thought - "

"Twisted my ankle a bit when I went down. I'll be fine once I get a chance to prop it up." Whistler found his customary chair and eased into it. Werner rose from the sofa and headed into the mini-kitchen, looking troubled.

"Tell me why," Bryce invited.

Whistler smiled slowly. "The briefcase is empty."

"You're sure?" Crease looked over sharply. "Not just underloaded?"

"Nope. I got a good feel through the cane when I hit it. One side met the other; not a sheet of paper in there." Whistler kept grinning.

Mother nodded. "Makes sense. It's obviously been used, but there aren't any scuff marks on the outside showing the outlines of pens or folders inside. If it ever carries anything, the payload changes."

"There's nothing in the dude's wallet except his bus pass, either," volunteered Carl. "Sonia said it was completely empty when she picked it."

"You're sure she didn't help herself to his cash?" Crease asked, one eyebrow raised.

"99.44% sure," Carl answered. "She's got a gold AmEx card. She doesn't need someone else's spare change; she picks pockets for a cheap thrill."

"Everyone needs a hobby," Mother observed.

Werner returned from the kitchen and lightly touched the back of Whistler's hand. "I made up an ice pack, if you want it," he said, handing over a plastic bag wrapped in a white bar mop.

"Where did you find a clean dishtowel in this place?" Liz marveled.

"So where does that leave us?" Bryce rubbed a stray mark from the whiteboard with his thumb. "The guy's suspicious six ways from Sunday, and now we have his schedule nailed down. But we still don't know who he works for, or exactly what he's doing."

"He's a microfilm courier," Whistler stated flatly.

All eyes turned towards him. "And you know this because . . . ?" Marty finally asked.

Whistler reached into his shirt pocket and drew out what looked like a vitamin capsule. "Picked this up off of him when we collided. He was carrying three or four in his inside jacket pocket."

Carl took it from him and held it up to the light. "Yup, there's a tiny strip in here. Maybe half a dozen frames?"

"Let's get it blown up," Bishop stated; Mother was already prepping the darkroom area. "Maybe it'll shed some light on who we're dealing with."

"Should I leave?" Werner asked Liz quietly.

She shook her head. "With these guys, it's in for a penny, in for a gold card."

He settled back on the sofa as Whistler propped up his ankle on the chair, balancing the ice pack on top of it. "I suppose," Brandes murmured under the bustling, "I should start working on developing a few talents." He absently scratched his dog behind the ears; Fort thumped his tail against the floor.

The chatter in the darkroom stopped abruptly. The pause lengthened like afternoon shadows; Liz and Werner shared a worried glance. Finally, Carl spoke up. "I can do code, but I don't know much about robotics, guys."

"I haven't kept my hand in," Mother said apologetically.

"I have," Werner said with only a brief hesitation. He rose to his feet again. "Anything I can help you with?"


End file.
